


Something About Snow

by SoManyJacks



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, Chess, Cullen is a sucker for cakes, Fluff, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:11:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6345277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoManyJacks/pseuds/SoManyJacks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a drabble I wrote, in honor of waking up to (what had damn well better be) the last snow of the season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thespectaclesofthor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespectaclesofthor/gifts).



The flakes drifted outside the leaded windowpanes, swirling like fireflies. Dorian watched them idly as Cullen surveyed the chess board between them. The Commander took far too long to plan his next move, Dorian thought. Possibly it was a side-effect of the military mind, Cullen having long since ceased to view the pieces as a mere game.

“They say in Tevinter that southern children build castles of the stuff,” Dorian noted.

“Hmm? To what are you referring?” Cullen looked up from his near trance, selecting a rook and putting it into play.

“Snow, my dear man.” Dorian waved languidly at the window.

Cullen graced him with one of his rare smiles. A brief curve, pulling the scar on his otherwise flawless lips into a shape that was far too attractive. Privately, Dorian was glad the Commander smiled so infrequently. Perish the thought that one too many of those grins be cast in his direction. It might give Dorian thoughts, and those kinds of thoughts often lead out of the arena of friendship into something much more dangerous.

“Castles might be stretching it. Forts, perhaps.” Cullen returned to his contemplation of the board.

“Ah, a connoisseur, I see.” Dorian glanced at the tiles and sighed. Cullen was, once again, playing it safe. Dorian made a bold foray with a bishop.

“I wouldn’t say that. No more than any Ferelden boy.”

“I used to love building castles made of sand, at the ocean. I’d get five shades browner, scampering about with Felix in the hot sun. We’d construct the most immaculate spires and towers with wet sand, decorating it with shells, then blast the whole thing apart and start over.” 

Another smile. Vishante kaffas, they were deadly. “Lake Calenhad had no sand, only mud. And snow forts are usually more utilitarian, unless one wants to risk frostbite.” One of Cullen's hands reached towards a knight and hovered for a long moment.

“You should show me,” Dorian said, immediately regretting the words - far too much like an overture to more time together. Well, his tongue had gotten him into trouble with handsome men before.  _ Friends. You’re trying to make friends, Pavus. _

Cullen glanced at the window. “Not the right kind of snow for it,” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘right kind’? How many kinds are there?”

Cullen looked at him, his gaze serious. The first time he had done this, Dorian thought it to be some sort of intimidation technique. As time wore on, the Tevinter realized it was not that at all; it was Cullen's attempt to determine whether Dorian was making fun of him. The man’s sense of humor was not, in Dorian's estimation, quite so finely honed as his own. And of course, the mage was in every respect much more intelligent. Not that the Commander was a stupid man; it was simply that Dorian was brilliant, end of story. Still, there had been a handful of times when his idle boasts or snide remarks, meant to lighten the mood, had created tension. Dorian forced his face into a semblance of sincerity. It was still a very foreign sensation.

Apparently satisfied, Cullen answered. “It’s too dry.”

Dorian blinked in surprise. “Too  _ dry? _ It’s frozen water. How can it be more or less dry?” 

Cullen shook his head and sighed in frustration, exhaling through his nose, lips pursed tightly. Dorian realized he’d made the man feel stupid. What was more troubling was that he cared. “I’m serious, Cullen. This is only my second snowstorm.”

At that, Cullen laughed. “You think that's a snowstorm?” He looked out the window. “It’s barely a flurry.” 

“Is it?” It seemed fairly steady to Dorian. “What would you call it, then?”

Cullen sighed again. This time is was less out of frustration and more from pique. “A dusting,” he clarified.

“Like powdered sugar on an Orlesian cake? I hear you would know,” Dorian winked. The Commander’s weakness for sweets had become something of a legend.

Cullen frowned at him in suspicion. “Perhaps you should consult the weathermaster. I’m sure he could give you a technical description.”

Dorian's grin faded. Apparently he’d pushed Cullen too far.  _ Why did you bring up the cakes, you idiot, you know it embarrasses the poor man. Most people don’t actually enjoy that. _ Blight it all, this was much more difficult than he’d expected, making friends. He’d never been at a loss for companionship in Tevinter. His good graces, and then his notoriety, had ensured a steady stream of sycophants and jaded souls willing to at least give the illusion of friendship. 

The Inquisition was different. He’d never been lonely before. After the novelty wore off, he found it quite intolerable. The Inquisitor’s companions and advisors were pleasant, of course, but not friendly. Only Cullen had accepted his overture for a game of chess, and Dorian privately suspected it was some sort of self-imposed penance for his time as a Templar. 

Still, Cullen continued to accept invitations for games, and had even issued a few of his own. If only Dorian could go a day without making an ass of himself. Cullen seemed to value politeness, and decency, and Dorian was neither of those things. 

Chastened, Dorian turned his attention back to the game. He was losing. “I suppose I should,” he said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen muttered. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to seem so... ill-tempered.”

Dorian waved him off with a bland smile. “No need. No one wants to blather on about the weather.”

The Commander’s attention turned back to the game. After a moment, he spoke without looking up. “There are many kinds of snow. This kind is too light, the flakes too small to adhere to each other properly. It will form drifts in the wind and leave the flagstones bare.”

Never had such a banal statement filled Dorian with such warmth. “Like dry sand?” 

“Lighter. Like... dust. Powder. In the depth of midwinter, when it is coldest - the air dry, the wind brittle - the powder falls most often. When it is cold enough, it skitters across the tops of the drifts in the wind. At night, when there’s no moon, you can see sparks of static.” Cullen glanced up briefly.

“Commander. That's quite beautiful. Static, you say? Remarkable.” Dorian hoped the words would be taken as intended.

Apparently he was successful, because Cullen continued. “Sometimes it is more granular, like sand: tiny little pellets of ice that peck at the windows. That's no good either, because it’s heavier. It falls straight to the ground. It can be quite slippery, or if it’s warmer it may melt into a sheet of ice. That only comes in early spring or late fall.” Cullen was still focused on the game, sacrificing a pawn.

“And the stuff of northern legend? Which snow is worthy of Castle Rutherford?” Dorian grinned.

This time, Cullen raised his gaze. “It’s... like... large, fat flakes, as big as duck down, which float to the ground in a blanket. The flakes stick on eyelashes and taste of dust when caught on the tongue. The air will be humid, close, all sounds muffled, the sky a solid grey so close you feel you could reach up and touch it. If you hold your breath, all you will hear is the sound of the snow falling, and the beating of your heart.”

Dorian was struck dumb; his stomach flopped over at Cullen's eloquence. After a moment he realized that his mouth was hanging open and he was blinking like an idiot. He cleared his throat to stall for time, trying to jump-start his brain into a response. He had no chance: Cullen launched another smile at him, warm and sincere and with just the faintest hint of mischief. 

Dorian realized then that it was going to be a long, and unexpectedly warm, winter. 


	2. A Thaw, of Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a long winter, but it's spring at last. 
> 
> Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I didn't intend to write more of this, but it looks like we'll be getting more snow here, well into April. Sigh. So. Have an epilogue.
> 
> Cloudreach = 4th month on the Thedas calendar.

Cullen felt the mattress shift gently. Fighting back a sigh, he kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep. He was quite good at it, in the way that soldiers accustomed to sharing quarters tend to be. When Dorian slipped from the bed, it was also a long-practiced maneuver, easing himself up with nary a creak.

It was some consolation to the Commander that Dorian even stayed this long. At first, the mage wouldn’t even undress all the way, stealing moments of muffled passion in Cullen's office, or against a secluded wall in the abandoned corners of Skyhold. For them to tumble naked into a bed seemed to be a revelation for Dorian, his eyes brimming with feverish lust and a strange sort of sadness, the kind that comes from the certainty that nothing good ever lasts.

Cullen had asked him to stay, of course. The first time Dorian had made a joke, the second an excuse, and the third time, he’d just smiled.

It wasn’t a happy smile.

So Cullen stopped asking. It was a punishingly cold winter, and yet Dorian continued to leave the huddle of warmth, pulling on his clothes and making his way into the night. Mid-February, he’d begun to doze a bit after they were spent. Then came a trip to Redcliffe. He avoided Cullen for almost a week after that, to the point where Cullen's heart had begun to clench uncomfortably whenever he thought about Dorian. Just when it began to coalesce from anxiety into actual heartbreak, Dorian had strode into his office, banging the door open as he’d done in Haven, grabbing Cullen's face with both hands and kissing the life out of him.

That night was the first he’d stayed longer than a few moments, the first night that Cullen had awoke in the darkness and felt the mage move against him, cradling him in his sleep. And the next morning, Dorian was gone.

Still. It was not nothing. And so Cullen always pretended to be asleep, knowing that for whatever reason, Dorian needed to leave. Someday Cullen's need for him to stay would become overwhelming, but not yet.

He heard the faint jingle of a buckle and knew Dorian was gathering his clothes. Then there was a quiet footstep as the mage turned towards the ladder leading to Cullen's office. Just like always.

Except it wasn’t. Because the mage suddenly yelped. “What the ever-living _hell_ is the meaning of this?”

Cullen whipped around, expecting a threat of some sort. Instead what he saw was Dorian, hands on hips, scowling at the corner of the room.

“What, what? What is it?” Cullen rubbed his eyes, trying to figure out what was going on.

“That.” Dorian pointed.

There was nothing there, just the rough wood of the floor, a few flakes of late-spring snow gathered in the crevices. It would be gone as soon as the sun hit it in the morning. “I don’t see anything.”

“There’s snow. On the ground.” Dorian accused.

“Yes?” Cullen sat up, amused. “It falls from the sky, Dorian. I thought we’d been over this.”

“It’s Cloudreach,” Dorian objected. _“Cloud. Reach._ It’s _spring.”_

“We’re in the mountains,” Cullen laughed, flopping back down on the bed.

“Yes but yesterday was _warm,”_ Dorian whined. “It was _heaven._ I didn’t even need a cloak.”

“That’s how it goes here, love. It’s not a straight trajectory. We’ll get the odd frost until the end of the month.” Cullen closed his eyes. It wasn’t even sunrise yet.

“What did you say?”

Cullen sensed, rather than saw, Dorian whip around. “I’m sorry. There’s not much I can do about it,” he laughed.

When Dorian didn’t respond, Cullen peeked an eye open. Dorian was frowning at him, but it wasn’t the sort of peevishness reserved for the weather. It was the frown of someone very scared.

Cullen suddenly realized what he’d said. He’d never used an endearment outside of sex, not with Dorian's loud and frequent tirades against such terms. _Too romantic,_ he’d say, drawing out the word in a mocking tone. _Honestly. Who says such things?_

It was risky to speak, but Cullen was used to risk. “Some things are inevitable. They happen whether you want them to or not.”

“And did you? Want this?” Dorian was almost trembling.

“Very much so.”

Dorian's jaw worked. After a very long moment, he glanced back at the snow, chewing his lip. “Well. Since there’s nothing to be done, I refuse to leave this room until it’s melted.” He tossed the clothes in his hands back on the chair.

Cullen tried not to smile, though he didn’t try very hard. “It’s to be a peaceful protest, then?”

Dorian slipped back under the blanket. “Yes. I’ll not stand for these Southern indignities any longer.” He curled himself around Cullen, ice-cold toes digging into the Commander’s calves.

“They say the late snow is the poor man’s fertilizer,” Cullen murmured into Dorian's hair. “Gentler than rain, and feeds the soil so good things grow.”

Dorian hummed against his chest. “Good things, eh? I’m not sure I know much about that.”

“I’ll teach you, love.” It felt much too good to say it out loud. 

“I’d... I’d like that, amatus.”


End file.
